


within the span of a night

by platinum_firebird



Category: David Blaize - E. F. Benson, The Enchanted Castle - E. Nesbit
Genre: Blow Jobs, First time with a man, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Magic, One Night Stands, magic gardens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-18 07:33:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21840562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platinum_firebird/pseuds/platinum_firebird
Summary: Frank expects nothing more exciting at his uncle's birthday dinner party than a good dessert, or maybe a moderately controversial opinion on cricket in the smoking room.He doesn't bargain on the appearance of an old acquaintance, nor a magic ring...
Relationships: Frank Maddox/Original Male Character, Frank Maddox/Phoebus Apollo
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	within the span of a night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aurilly](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurilly/gifts).



> I actually read both these canons on the strength of your recommendation, and loved them! Thank you for introducing me to both of these :) I was also desperately trying to find a more romantic way to word 'one night stand' for the tag - one night love affair? One night of passion? Whatever the wording, that's what we've got here. I hope you enjoy the story!

There was no question that his decision to attend this dinner party had been a bad one. Frank should have known, really, that at a quiet dinner held in celebration of his uncle’s birthday the guests would trend older, but he hadn’t banked on them all being so _boring_.

At least, Frank thought as he tuned out Reverend Carmichael’s droning ode to the virtues of the honeybee, this was the final course, after which he could feign tiredness and retire to his bedroom. As he glanced down toward the other end of the table, his eye rested on the only other member of the dining party who was around his own age; Arthur Bradshaw, with whom he’d had a passing acquaintance at Cambridge. At that moment Bradshaw looked up and caught him staring; Frank glimpsed the beginnings of a smile on his face before he hurriedly looked back to the Reverend.

He hadn’t seen much of Bradshaw at Cambridge; hadn’t even known his uncle had any connection to him before he’d turned up at the door for dinner. Frank couldn’t even have said what he’d read at Cambridge - only that he’d been a forward on his college’s rugby team, and a good one, from what he’d heard.

Finally the plates were cleared, and they all rose to go through into the smoking room. It would be easy enough, Frank thought, to excuse himself now-

He felt a hand hook around his elbow as he entered the corridor. “Borrow you for a moment, Maddox?” a warm, low voice said close to his ear.

Bradshaw. The voice sent a low frisson of _something_ through Frank’s gut, either excitement or nerves, he couldn’t tell which. For a moment he hesitated, wanting to make his excuses and leave, but he could think of no polite reason to say no. He nodded, then followed Bradshaw without a word, down the corridor and out onto the wide sweep of the terrace.

“Beautiful night for it, isn’t it?” Bradshaw said as they stepped outside.

“Yes,” Frank said, trying not to sound wary. In truth he was confused - what did Bradshaw want, exactly? _Maybe he’s as bored as you are, and wants to escape the old men’s talk in the smoking room_. That idea put him somewhat more at ease, though he still felt guarded as Bradshaw ambled over to the balustrade and looked out into the dark gardens. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with my uncle,” Frank said.

“Yes, Lord Yalding is an old friend of one of my old professors, and was kind enough to introduce me to some acquaintances of his in the City,” Bradshaw said. “That was really the making of me, that introduction, so we’ve been friendly ever since.”

“He’s a generous man,” Frank said.

“That he is.” Bradshaw turned to look at him. “You know, it’s funny we haven’t run into each other more, what with you being Lord Yalding’s nephew.”

“I’ve been often in Greece these last two years.”

“Yes, I did hear about that. I believe you know another friend of mine, Albert Saxby?”

Frank just about stopped himself from flinching. Yes, he knew Albert Saxby - if hating someone counted as knowing them.

Apparently his feelings were clear on his face, because Bradshaw winced and said, “Yes, I heard you had a disagreement.”

 _More like a screaming row_ , Frank thought. “I… felt he had betrayed something I told him in confidence,” Frank said stiffly. In truth, there was no ‘felt’ about it; he’d had far too much to drink one night during their time in Athens, admitted to some things that should have remained firmly a secret, and then Saxby had felt the need to go on and tell _Dillon_ -

“Ah.” Bradshaw swallowed. “Then I must admit that I, too, have… heard that confidence.”

For a long moment Frank simply froze, staring up at him, a sick feeling gathering in his stomach. Bradshaw cleared his throat awkwardly, and suddenly Frank wondered why they were out here, alone, together. Had Bradshaw wanted to confront him about this? Or maybe-

He felt Bradshaw’s fingers rest lightly against the back of his hand. “It’s alright,” Bradshaw said, his deep voice low and gentle, “I won’t tell anyone.”

That was more, suddenly, than Frank could bear. Without thinking he turned and ran, ignoring Bradshaw’s shout of “Frank!” as he ran down the steps off the terrace and into the shadowed twist of hedges and flowerbeds that marked the edge of the garden.

He ran until he couldn’t hear the sounds of the party any more, until he was alone in the dark, quiet garden. He felt like curling up and sinking to the floor, but he held on until he found a low stone bench; then he collapsed down onto it, hugging his arms around himself. If Saxby had told Dillon and Bradshaw, then who else? Could it be contained to the few people who already knew, or would it begin to spread, following him around like a stain that could not be removed? Would everyone know, soon? He hugged his arms around his suddenly aching chest; it felt hard to breathe. Why did Saxby kept _telling people_ -

At that moment something small, seemingly dropped out of the sky, landed on Frank’s head.

He started and looked about, but there was no one in sight. Then he reached down and scrabbled around in the dirt by his feet, until finally his hand closed around something small and metal. Holding it up in the moonlight, Frank could see it was a small, plain ring. _Well,_ he thought to himself, _now where did this come from?_ He stood up and looked around, but he was still alone in this part of the garden, so far as he could tell. Which was, indeed, a blessed relief, for the longer Frank stood there, the longer he felt like a child, ashamed of having thrown a temper-tantrum. Yes, more people knowing his damning secret was a problem - Frank felt his breath seize up again at the thought of it - but Bradshaw hadn’t shunned him. Perhaps he thought- perhaps he only wanted to talk. Maybe he would respect Frank’s wishes if he asked him never to speak of Frank’s secret ever, ever again.

But the ring had to have come from somewhere, and if it had an owner, Frank was obliged to find them and return it before he did anything for himself. And more selfishly, Frank could not banish the thought that there was someone there, watching him from behind a hedge and laughing at him - and if there were, he would see they got a good talking to. For several minutes he looked around, checking behind every hedge and tall shrub, but he found no one.

“Looks like you’ve lost your ring, then, whoever you are,” Frank said to himself, before shrugging and slipping it onto his finger. If he was to own it, he may as well wear it.

The moment the metal was snug around his finger he heard a giggle. He twisted round, just in time to catch sight of a white figure disappearing behind a nearby hedge. “Hey!” he called, rushing after them. The bright sound of their laughter floated back to him, leading him deeper and deeper into the garden; until he found himself very suddenly at the edge of the lake, his arrival so abrupt that he teetered for a second on the edge, almost losing his balance.

“Careful, there,” a voice said, close at hand, “It wouldn’t do to fall in.”

Frank looked up, then blinked. He had explored his uncle’s gardens enough to be well familiar with all the statues of Greek gods and goddesses that populated it, especially the powerful, handsomely carved statue of Phoebus Apollo; he had just never thought he’d find himself addressed by that same statue. “No, it wouldn’t,” he said dumbly, staring.

Phoebus gave him a mischievous smile. “You look as if you have never seen a statue before.”

“Not a talking, moving one,” Frank said.

“Then you clearly haven’t been looking the right places.” Phoebus held out a hand. “Since you now _are_ in the right place, would you like to come with us?”

“With you?”

“To the island; we feast there every night.”

Frank looked out across the lake to the island, and thought he could detect the faintest hint of a light out there, beyond the trees. He hesitated, glancing back at the lit towers of the house; but a mysterious feast on an island with a talking statue would surely trump whatever conversation his uncle was having in the smoking room with his guests.

 _I should probably be afraid_ , Frank thought, turning back to look at Phoebus. The silver moonlight gilded all his cold white marble features, making them soft and magical. _I shouldn’t believe he even exists._ And yet here the statue stood, walking and talking and smiling, just like a living human being. _And I don’t feel afraid._

“It’s quite a long swim,” Frank said.

“Ah, but I see you have Pysche’s magic ring on your finger,” Phoebus said, gesturing to his hand. “The dear children left it with her, after they had their great adventure. You could use it in the same way they did - to become one of us for the night, and so enjoy the feast as we do.”

“Become one of you?” Frank said, slightly alarmed. “You mean, a statue?”

“Something like a statue,” Phoebus said, his grin sly. “But do remember to be specific.” With that, Phoebus suddenly leapt away, falling with a great splash into the pool; a second later Frank saw him surface and begin to swim, faster than he would have thought possible for a huge block of marble. _This is magic_ , Frank thought; then he looked down at the ring on his finger. A magic ring, Phoebus had called it. Was that really true?

There was only one way to find out.

 _Be specific_ , Phoebus had said. Feeling like a fool, Frank held out his hand, stared hard at the plain little ring and said, “I wish that I would become a living statue for the night, like Phoebus Apollo and the rest.”

In a second something felt different, and when he looked down at his own hand again, Frank nearly fell over in shock. His skin was pale as moonlight, white as a fresh plucked daisy, and hard as stone - living stone. The magic ring had done exactly what Phoebus had promised it would.

Some part of him knew he should have felt fear, or even horror; but the greater part was caught up in a sudden surge of joy. Magic was _real_ , and he had found it!

Laughing, Frank plunged into the lake and begin swimming after Phoebus. He found it was as easy as the god had made it look; neither his clothes nor the profusion of water plants impeded him, and he did not tire. Soon enough he was pulling himself out of the water and onto the bank of the island, where he found a young woman waiting for him. “You found my present, then?” she asked, grinning.

“You mean you’re the one who lobbed this ring at me?” Frank asked, grinning despite himself. “It didn’t half give me a fright!”

She laughed, the same bright, pretty sound that had led him through the garden, and Frank saw a butterfly flutter down and come to rest on her shoulder. This, then, must be Psyche - and Phoebus had called this Psyche’s ring. “Thank you for lending it,” Frank said, moving to remove it from his finger - but he found that it wouldn’t come off. “I would offer it back to you, but it seems to be stuck-”

“Leave it,” Psyche said, “You must come and enjoy the feast!”

She held out her hand, and led him through a ring of dark trees into a bright, golden space. There was a wide, smooth lawn, and at the centre marble steps led down to a round pool. It seemed all the other statues in the garden had come to life and were there under the trees, sitting about on the lawn or the marble steps while they chattered and feasted. “Psyche is the late one this time!” one of them called out; she came forward with a wreath in her hands. “And you brought an extra guest,” she said, smiling at Frank while she placed the wreath onto Psyche’s head.

“Could you be a dear and make one more wreath, Hebe?” Psyche asked. “We cannot allow our guest to go without.”

“Certainly,” Hebe said, and she went quickly off to the other side of the pool. Her hands seemed to work faster than thought; within a minute she was back and placing a wreath onto Frank’s head. “There,” she said, standing back to look at him, “Now you can take a seat at the feast.”

Psyche had left his side, going to sit with a young winged man who could only be her husband, Cupid; but a hand took Frank’s, and he heard Phoebus’ voice say, “I am glad you made it to our feast.”

Frank turned to him, a little startled,but before he could say anything, Phoebus began leading him over to one of the blankets spread on the lawn. “Can I tempt you with anything?” he asked, giving Frank a wide smile. For a moment Frank thought- but he couldn’t-

“Wine?” he asked, trying not to let his voice sound strangled.

“Of course.” Phoebus reached up into the branches of a nearby tree, and though Frank watched closely, he did not see how it happened; but suddenly there was a pitcher of wine in Phoebus’ hand, and a glass into which he was pouring it. “How did you do that?” Frank asked, taking the proffered glass.

“Magic,” Phoebus said, smiling even wider. “Are you hungry?”

For the next hour Frank ate and drank in the company of the gods, and it was the most delicious food and drink he’d ever tasted. He forgot any momentary discomfort he might have had, and by the end of the meal he was content and full, almost sleepy. He followed the other gods and goddesses as they gathered by the pool, where he found Phoebus tuning his lyre, his handsome face screwed up in concentration. “You’re going to play for us?” Frank asked, sitting down at his feet.

Phoebus flashed him a smile. “I will - and you shall have the honour of choosing the song, if you like.”

Frank blinked. “Me?”

Phoebus gave him a sly grin. “I always let the most beautiful guest chose the music.”

Frank opened his mouth, feeling his cheeks heat, but no words came out. His mind had gone blank, and he could not think of a single song, old or new, even as Phoebus smiled at him encouragingly. “Er, I… do you sing of the old myths?” Frank asked lamely.

“Of course. Which is your favourite?”

“Any of them,” Frank said, which wasn’t entirely true, but he couldn’t for the life of him think clearly enough to rank all the Greek tales, not when Phoebus was smiling at him like that. “Maybe a rarer one?”

“Your wish is my command,” Phoebus said, winking; then he plucked a few beautiful notes from the lyre, and he began to sing.

The music was like nothing Frank had ever heard. He sat absolutely enraptured, enthralled, until the last note had died away, too stunned by the beauty of it to even clap. His trance only broke when Phoebus went to one knee in front of him and took both his hands. “Did you not enjoy it, then?” he asked. “I noticed these two hands did not come together in praise.”

“How could one think of something so mortal as applause, when listening to that?” Frank asked quietly.

At that Phoebus laughed. “Quite! It has even got you waxing poetic, my friend.” One of his thumbs began to stroke the inside of Frank’s wrist. “But perhaps you would prefer to move onto the next stage of the evening?”

“There’s more?”

“Yes - the part of the evening where Cupid is the master of ceremonies.” Phoebus lifted one of his hands and kissed the back of it, keeping his gaze locked on Frank’s.

Frank spluttered something meaningless out of pure reflex; his mind had frozen, seized up like a machine without oil. For so long he’d been used to not looking for second meanings, to not seeing anything more than friendship - but there was no possible way to interpret Phoebus’ words as purely friendly, was there? Frank cast his gaze around the clearing - anything to look away from Phoebus’ intense gaze - and found others had already moved onto ‘Cupid’s stage of the evening’. As expected, it was entirely not-platonic.

Frank looked back to Phoebus. Surely there was no other meaning to the heat in his eyes, or the slow, gentle caress of both his thumbs against the soft skin of Frank’s wrists. Frank stared back, suddenly uncomfortably aware of his exquisitely muscled chest and arms, and the fact he wore nothing but a loincloth. “With me?” he asked in a whisper, because the very idea seemed absurd.

“Yes, with you.” Phoebus leant forward, his lips only a breath away. “That is, if you will have me.”

Frank knew he should say no - knew he should not even have acknowledged what Phoebus was implying. But here he felt insulated from fear or worry, or any care of the outside world. And who would believe him, anyway, if he should tell of the statues who came alive, and their great feast on the lake? In the real world, any such passion would carry with it the fear of discovery; but here, no one would ever know.

“Yes,” Frank said, and when Phoebus’ mouth met his in a kiss he kissed back, surprised by the sudden burst of hunger in his belly. He’d kissed other men before, stolen moments in the boys’ dorms at school or university, in gardens at country house parties or in the rich, fragrant darkness of the night in Greece - but nothing like this. For half a moment he’d been worried Phoebus would taste like damp, rough stone, but he did not. Frank imagined this must be what sunshine tasted like; bright, sweet, searing, with a lingering tingle on the tongue that felt like magic.

Phoebus laid him back gently in the soft grass, and at his touch Frank forgot about the other statues, the pond and the island, the castle and the fusty old men in the smoking room. Even with Phoebus’ hands gentling and slowing him, he pulled himself almost frantically out of his clothes, pressing kisses to every inch of white skin that he could reach, and Phoebus returned his passion in kind.

Phoebus pressed a trail of kisses down his stomach, lingering playfully on the skin there, teasing, knowing where Frank really wanted his mouth. Then suddenly, finally, Phoebus’ mouth closed around his cock, and Frank gasped, winding his fingers into the god’s curly hair. He’d heard- but no one had ever actually done this, not to him. He gasped softly, feeling the utterly foreign but addictive sensation of Phoebus’ tongue caressing his incredibly sensitive skin, sliding up the shaft and over the head. Then he sucked, and Frank surprised himself with just how loud a moan rose out of his throat. The momentary flash of embarrassment was gone in a second; Phoebus sucked almost the entirety of Frank’s cock back into his mouth, and Frank threw his head back, lost in sensation. His fingers were curled tight in Phoebus’ hair, tugging almost cruelly, but the god didn’t seem to mind. Frank couldn’t help but buck his hips up, pressing his cock further into Phoebus’ mouth, chasing sensation. Phoebus’ hands came up and held him firmly in place, and Frank was pinned there, helpless with desire and frantic want as Phoebus licked and sucked him into a sudden, blinding orgasm.

Afterward Frank had to take a moment to just lie there and recover his senses; but he grabbed Phoebus’ hand when he seemed to be making to move away. “Not finished yet,” he panted, pushing himself up into a sitting position.

“You want your fair share, then?” Phoebus asked, grinning at him. His thick cock jutted up proudly between his legs; he sat back, displaying himself without a modicum of concern for propriety. Frank couldn’t help but stare, and of course he noted it. “Do you want to touch it?” he asked, his voice a low, sultry whisper.

“Yes,” Frank said, coming forward on his knees. He surprised himself in having no hesitation as he reached out and took Phoebus’ thick cock in hand; his strokes were unpractised, a little clumsy, but soon Phoebus guided his hand, showing him the best way to move, the most sensitive spots. Frank found himself entranced by the play of emotions and expressions across Phoebus’ face; he was almost surprised when he let out a groan, and something warm and wet splattered across Frank’s hand.

Instantly Phoebus pulled him into a deep, passionate kiss; and then he pulled back, saying, “And that, regrettably, is the end of the time allotted to us; for the dawn is near at hand.”

Frank started and looked up. Sure enough, the eastern sky was awash with faint, pale light. “Oh,” he said, before Phoebus planted a last fleeting kiss onto his lips.

“Go well, my young beloved; and be happy.” And with that Phoebus sprang up and began to race back toward the shore; and Frank could see that he was one of the last, as nearly all the other gods and goddesses were gone, the very last of them now disappearing with Phoebus through the trees. He got up to follow them, and as he did the magic seemed to leak slowly out of the island. The smooth lawn became a nightmare tangle of ferns and brambles; the beautiful pool shrank, becoming nothing more than a shallow, muddy puddle. By the time Frank had fought his way to the shore of the island, he too had changed; he was a human man once more.

With the change came fear, and regret. The events of the night felt like a bright, beautiful fever dream - and as Frank looked out across the lake he realised two things. For one, he was now stranded on this island, unless there was a boat hidden somewhere along the shore; and more importantly, he had run away from Bradshaw on the terrace last night and almost immediately been swept off to the island. That had been around ten, and now it was dawn, which meant he’d been out all night. They might be looking for him; his uncle would almost certainly be worried. _I’m an embarrassment_ and _I’ll have ruined his birthday dinner_ , Frank thought, staring forlornly at the opposite shore of the lake.

He spent a few minutes tramping around the island’s boundary to see if he could rustle up a boat, finding in the process that it was a lot smaller than it had seemed last night. He wondered if he had somehow dreamt the entire thing; but he could not come up with a suitable, rational explanation of how he might have got here to the island. And what’s more, the plain little ring was still on his finger, as hard and real as anything. _It was not a dream_ , Frank thought, though he did not know if he found the idea comforting or terrifying.

Eventually he ended up in the same place, staring out at the opposite shore. It was quite a distance, but he was still a fair swimmer - and the thought of being discovered stranded on the island was embarrassing enough that he stripped off his jacket, removed his shoes, then strode confidently into the water. He could use the old rowboat moored in the boathouse to come back for his clothing later.

It was colder than he might have expected, it being summer, but not cold enough to convince him to return to the island. Soon he was deep enough to swim, and he ploughed diligently toward the opposite bank, planning in his head how he might sneak inside the castle and thus avoid the embarrassment of being found in the gardens, wet and bedraggled like a disobedient puppy.

It was not, of course, to be. The swim was a much longer distance than it had seemed from the island, and after a night without sleep, Frank was nearing complete exhaustion by the time he reached the opposite bank. Here the natural water’s edge had been replaced by a marble platform, and though Frank managed to reach up and grip it, just as if he were hanging onto the side of a swimming pool, he found that for a moment he lacked the energy to pull himself up onto dry land.

A voice shouted his name, and a second later someone hung over the water’s edge, their hand outstretched. Unquestioningly Frank took it and allowed the stranger to pull him up.

The second his feet were on dry land, he found himself enveloped in a tight hug. “Good God,” a voice said, right by his ear. It was familiar, but Frank was too tired to work out exactly to whom it belonged. A moment later he found his answer; the other man pushed him back rather abruptly, and he found himself face to face with a very harried, exceedingly tired Arthur Bradshaw.

He had the look of a man who had not slept all night. “God, I’m so sorry, that was very forward-” he stuttered.

“It’s alright,” Frank said reflexively. He was sure if he weren’t suddenly so exhausted he would have been embarrassed, maybe even affronted; but now all he could think about was dry clothes and a warm bed.

“Good God, Frank, where have you _been_?” Bradshaw asked.

Frank’s heart sank. “You’ve all been looking for me,” he said.

“Well, not all,” Bradshaw said evasively. When Frank just stared at him, he admitted, “Fine, alright, I told everyone you’d gone to bed. I thought you’d come back in short order, and I didn’t want to embarrass you by, er, telling them what really happened. But I waited up, and you didn’t come back, so eventually I went out looking for you…”

“Why did you wait?” Frank asked, frowning.

An awkward expression came onto Bradshaw’s face. “Well, I… I acted a bit of a prig, really, yesterday. I brought up an awkward subject and didn’t explain myself properly… I wanted to apologise.”

 _He is a good man_ , Frank thought, feeling a flare of warmth in his chest. “I will happily accept your apology,” he said, “So long as you’d be so good as to accompany me back to the house; I could use a change of clothes.”

“Certainly,” Bradshaw said, “Lord, I should have brought a towel.”

“I don’t expect you thought I might be in the lake,” Frank said, as they began to walk back in the direction of Yalding Castle.

“Well, I did begin to think the worst, after a while; that you might have tripped, and fallen in…”

Bradshaw was clearly waiting for him to explain what he _had_ been doing, but Frank had no idea how to even begin to broach that subject. “Something like that,” he said, deflecting the question.

Bradshaw let him do so, and they spent the rest of the walk up to the castle mostly in silence. Frank snuck them in through a door that wouldn’t be frequently used by either guests or staff, and they made it back to the door of his room without seeing another soul.

He opened the door, but stopped at Bradshaw’s hand on his elbow. “Listen, I should… about last night…”

For a second Frank felt sick nerves rise in his stomach, and he was tempted to dart inside his room and shut the door in Bradshaw’s face; but then he heard Phoebus’ voice in his mind. _Go well, my young beloved; and be happy._ It still felt a little like dream, but Frank knew that it had been real; he had been with another man, touched another man like that, and he had been happy. Deliriously so.

 _Maybe, just perhaps, it’s worth the risk. Maybe_.

“If you’ll still be here later, then maybe we could talk about it,” he said, and even such an innocent sentence felt daring.

Bradshaw’s expression did something complicated, and he said, “Of course. I’ll cancel my train.”

“Oh, you don’t have to-”

“I do. I will.” He cleared his throat. “In the drawing room, maybe?”

Frank shook his head. “On the bench at the centre of the rose garden,” he said, “There we… won’t be interrupted.”

Something hung between them, some heavy, unnameable thing that made it almost hard to breathe. Frank thought he knew what it was, but he wouldn’t say anything yet; but perhaps, if he was lucky, it would turn out that Bradshaw felt the same way he did.

“Later, then,” Bradshaw said, nodding to him before disappearing down the passageway. Frank retreated into his room, and began to strip out of his wet clothes - and as he did so he thought the air held the scent of promise.

 _Go well, my young beloved; and be happy._ And he intended to, though it might mean taking a leap of faith.

Though maybe, in the end, that would be worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and Happy Yuletide!


End file.
